


to the victor, the spoils

by kalypsobean



Category: The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Fate & Destiny, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:48:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2840276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Achilles is tired of fighting; he would go home, but for the warning in Patroklos' heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the victor, the spoils

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shirasade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirasade/gifts).



> Happy holidays to shirasade! I hope you enjoy your gift.

Only Patroklos could reach him now. Even Odysseus had tried and failed, though that was more out of choice, for Odysseus is wise to know when to retreat, when to continue.

But only Patroklos may speak without Achilles raising his hand; only Patroklos may touch Achilles' shoulder and whisper in a soothing voice, calming the rage that dwells deep in the Myrmidon's heart. Only Patroklos, of all his men and all his allies, will he let close; he is like a wild horse of the plains, spooked, strong in his bemused flailing.

 

"All this over a girl, cousin?" Patroklos says. He sits behind Achilles; he kneads his hands in Achilles' tight shoulders, loosening the muscles there as he longs to unbind the shields around Achilles' heart. "She is a prize, but not one without compare; she is no Helen."

Achilles reaches up and back; he tangles his hand in Patroklos' hair, as he has done since they were young, careless, unlike they are now.

"It is not about the girl," he says. "You know this; you above all understand this." Patroklos makes a humming sound, deep in his throat; he rests his chin on Achilles' right shoulder, and his chest on Achilles' back.

It is a strange foreboding, he has, that he should not succeed in this or it will be the last time they touch like this; but there is a war and it needs winning, and they will have the favour of Zeus if they ride out in the dawn.

"I am their equal. I fight their war. Yet they treat me as a second son, disrespect me in front of the fleet, and that is not my shame, but the shame of all of us."

"They have offered to return her, offered gold, even; you know how rare that is now," Patroklos knows Achilles has turned it down; Odysseus left the tent, his mouth a grim line, and shook his head.

"They offer nothing but their leavings; they have picked over the loot like vultures and what is left is not fit a prize for what they promised." Achilles stands, then; he blocks the light from outside the tent, and Patroklos sees him as if he were a spirit, rising from the last smoke of the dampened fire. "We are going home, cousin; do you not want to see home again? The fields will be tilled, now, the dirt golden brown; the air would smell clean, not of death. Our land is good land; the crops will be plentiful enough, our trade strong without riches paid for in blood."

 

Patroklos can see it; he remembers working in the fields, running alongside the ruts with seeds falling from his hands, his eyes closed against the dust. He remembers Achilles, waiting at the end with water cupped in his palms, raised for Patroklos to drink from.

"If we leave, we leave against the tide, with Poseidon's wrath," he says. "The men are restive, and will not take a long journey easily."

"We leave with honour," Achilles says. Patroklos can see him breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, his shoulders shaking.

"If we leave, we leave with the fleet, with Agamemnon and Menelaus, and Odysseus, thinking that we are weak," he says.

"No, cousin, they will not. They will rue our leaving, and they will know that they cannot disrespect a Myrmidon. We will gain from this, cousin, and keep what few lives we still have."

"And when have you put the lives of your men above your own honour, your glory, your promised glory?"

 

Patroklos can hear them outside, the men; they are half-packed, for they know not whether they are staying or sailing, and it is now, in this uncertainty, that their morale is lowest. They need their leader strong, to guide them; they need a king, Patroklos knows, and he cannot be that if Achilles is not, for none can wear his armour and take his place without feeling as small as a man pretending to be a god. They are the ones he thinks of, when he would succour his cousin with his body and balm the hurt with kisses and bathe him with gentle hands and the sweetest perfume.

"They want to fight, Achilles. Let them, even if you do not lead them."

But Achilles shakes his head, and stokes the last of the fire with new wood; it lights the tent and reflects from Achilles' tears.

"Too many mothers have lost sons in this alliance," he says. "Their shades haunt my dreams, Patroklos, crying for their unburied dead. It is not all glory here, where the stench of death reaches even the sea."

"Then let me guard your sleep, cousin," Patroklos says. Achilles sits heavily beside him; Patroklos touches his hair, his arm, but Achilles does not return them. He sits as still as a stone, as if a statue already raised in his own honour. "Rest easily, and decide in the morning."

Achilles raises his chin, assent enough. Patroklos lets Achilles lie him back, his touch gentle but not searching, not heated. 

 

Patroklos lies awake long after Achilles has fallen to dreams that mar his brow and do not submit to Patroklos' songs. He has not slept when it comes dawn, and the sun kisses Achilles' armour, polished and unstained, lying where it had been thrown aside.

Patroklos would do anything for his cousin; this he has always known. Achilles' armour is heavier than his own, weighted as it is to impart inhuman force to each blow Achilles strikes; it fits well enough, and the men call to him as he exits and raises his spear. They cheer such that any words Patroklos spoke to destroy the illusion would be lost, and still Achilles does not rise.

It is as if Zeus himself had his hand over Patroklos, over the men, and this was his will.

So Patroklos rides, for his cousin's honour and the end of a war that has shown him more death than all the life he once sowed in the earth.


End file.
